Nocturne
by jenlee1
Summary: Sometimes, even though he wants to help, there is nothing he can do. Slash, Holmes/Watson, but nothing explicit--rating is for drug use and general angst.


_**A/N: **_This is just an angsty little one-shot that popped into my mind this week; hopefully someone will enjoy it :) I would call it slash, although I think it's a bit ambiguous, so you may want to steer clear if that's not your thing.

(And, If anyone is wondering about my other story, _A Matter of Conscience_, I'm still working on it--Chapter 7 should be up within the next few days.)

* * *

When the summons comes in the middle of the night, as always, I tell Mary that my friend is ill. Which is not a lie, precisely, but it is also not the truth, and Mary probably knows it. Tonight is the third time this month, but she does not question me as I kiss her softly and slip out of bed, and this is one of the many reasons that I love her.

******

Mrs. Hudson is waiting at the door when I arrive, clasping and unclasping her hands in mute anxiety. "He's upstairs," she says needlessly, because there is nothing else to say. She watches me ascend to his rooms, medical bag in hand, and her eyes are full of pity.

******

He is sprawled near his favorite armchair, amidst the detritus of chemical experiments and stagnant cases, and my breath catches for a moment as I drop beside him, pressing a hand to his chest, because some things just don't change. At my touch, he starts awake and his eyes are impossibly dilated, flitting unsteadily across my face as if they don't remember how to focus. I can see the tiny rivulet of blood, the angry red pinpricks on his arm as he writhes on the floor, tremors running through his body, and _God_, I've never seen him this bad. "Dammit, Holmes," I murmur, "how much did you take?"

The question is rhetorical, because he cannot answer me, or even process my words. Thoughts slip through his mind like wisps of smoke when he is like this, ephemeral and indistinct, and he cannot grasp one long enough to make sense of it.

******

I turn to retrieve my bag, but he reaches for me, his fingers scrambling for purchase on my sleeve, and I allow him to pull me down beside him because he needs this, needs _me_, so much that it hurts. His shaking hands are everywhere at once—on my face, in my hair, clutching desperately at my shoulders as though he were drowning. And maybe he is, but I cannot save him; I never could, even at the best of times, and certainly not now.

He presses his lips to my neck, trembling, and his breath is hot and frantic against my skin. I do not object as his fingers struggle to work the buttons of my shirt, tentative and desperate all at once, so that he can slide his hands inside. His mouth finds my collarbone and hovers there for a moment before he presses himself closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

He shudders against me, fingertips twitching spasmodically across my back because the drug won't allow him to keep still, and I can feel his racing heartbeat, much too fast, pounding through the fabric of his shirt. His breathing is frighteningly erratic, harsh and irregular against my shoulder, and a thrill of fear runs through me as I slip gently free from his embrace. He needs help, and I dare not delay any longer. He whispers something incoherent as I reach again for my bag, and I turn away from his eyes, because they are hollow, and unfocused, and filled with anguish that I don't want to see.

******

He shivers helplessly on the floor behind me as I prepare a sedative, something to slow his heart rate and make him sleep, and my hands are no steadier than his as I search for a vein.

"There," I whisper, sliding the needle in. "There, now, it's all right. You're all right." If I say it enough, perhaps we will both believe it. Senselessly, I take a moment to roll down his sleeve, covering the needle marks with smooth white fabric, because it makes things better somehow.

******

It is not yet morning when I take my leave, but he is quiet and still, nearly asleep. As I begin to stand, his hand curls ineffectually around my wrist in a silent plea, and I can feel the fine tremors that have not yet left his fingers.

"I'm sorry, old boy," I murmur, my voice catching a bit, "but I cannot stay."

I say the words even though he cannot comprehend them, in more ways than one. If past experience can be believed, he will remember nothing in the morning, which is the only mercy there is in all of this. As always, I am not so fortunate.

******

Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, I will come for a visit. We will talk about his cases, and my practice, and things will be normal. We will not, under any circumstances, talk about this.

As I collect my bag, I lean down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. It is not enough, of course, but somehow it will have to be, because it is all that I can give him.


End file.
